


The Mousetrap

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for episodes 1 and 2. Pierre is now Count Bezukhov, but he's not certain how he fits into this new world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mousetrap

Even with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, Pierre--Count Bezukhov as he is now--is certain that he sees little of what is going on around him, and positive that he understands far less. 

He should be grateful. Not only has he inherited his father’s title and estates, but he’s also married to the most entrancing woman who has been put on this earth for his pleasure alone. The drunken fumblings of his bachelor days are now a thing of the past.

Life with Helene is not always easy. She’s a fey creature, full of whims and wiles. She twists him around her finger the same way she toys with the curls in her hair. He wants to be inside her at all times, to spend and spend until she’s growing fat with his child and everyone will know that she is truly his. She, however, has different plans. She does not want to be a mother. She’s forever occupied in Moscow with her socialite friends and shows a studied indifference to his duties as count. His greatest wish is that she show a little more interest in the lives of his people -- peasants she calls them with a sneer on her face.

The hand slapping hard against his backside causes him to jump, and he wheels around to see who would have the audacity to behave in such a disrespectful way in the open streets of Moscow.

“Petrushka, how is married life?” booms a smoke husky voice. “Is that pretty wife treating you well in bed?”

It’s Dolokhov of course--it could only _be_ Dolokhov--and Pierre finds himself inordinately pleased to see his old friend. The man treats him the same whether he’s a bookish bastard or a respectable count. It comes as a comfort when all else around him has changed.

“All is good,” replies Pierre, blushing as if he is the coy little bride rather than Helene. Sometimes he wonders whether he is. “Very good indeed. I hear you performed admirably in battle, Fedya. A war hero I am told.”

Dolokhov laughs. “I would rather the army honoured me with roubles rather than compliments, but a good fight is reward in itself.”

“They do not pay you?” asks Pierre.

“A soldier in the ranks is worth less than a horse,” says Dolokhov with a shrug. “We are not as well bred and there is a never ending supply of us to act as cannon fodder.”

Pierre is offended on his behalf. “My dear fellow, I cannot believe they left you penniless.”

“Not quite broke, but I have commitments.” Dolokhov looks away for a moment, the mask slipping as that rough and ready Cossack vanishes to become someone entirely different. Within seconds he is back. “A commitment to hard drinking and whores,” he says, leering and looking, in the moonlight, all too much like a wolf. “At least now I have regained my rank and am back to being captain. Come, Petrushka, let us get drunk together and celebrate.”

Pierre knows he should refuse the invitation and return to the mausoleum that is his new home, yet he cannot help but recall, with nostalgia, the excitement he’d felt at finally being invited to attend one of his cousin Anatole’s infamous parties. He remembers his first encounter with the riotous Dolokhov and the shocking thrill of having that masculine mouth pressed against his, time and time again. The more intoxicated Fedya grew, the longer those kisses lasted and to his utter bewilderment, Pierre had found himself looking forward to them altogether too much.

“One drink and then I must go home.”

“And I to whatever stables I can find for the night,” laughs Dolokhov.

With arms clasped around one another, they wander across the square to the nearest drinking den and spend the evening demolishing shot after shot of ice cold vodka, playing vingt et un and reminiscing over the bad old days -- tying a policeman to a bear is far from the worst thing they’ve ever done.

“How is Anatole?” asks Dolokhov as he polishes off yet another glass.

“You’re telling me you don’t know?” says Pierre in surprise.

“He decided it was not the done thing to be seen with an ordinary soldier.” Dolokhov stares at his empty glass for a rueful moment before topping it up. “On the plus side, Prince Vasili is pleased to be rid of me. He never did consider me a suitable companion for his darling son.”

“Likewise,” laughs Pierre. “At best he tolerated me.”

All of a sudden he’s reminded of the easy friendship that existed between Fedya and Anatole, the casual way they’d take a woman to bed and share her for the night. On occasion, he’d discover them in the mornings, the whore long since departed and the two of them sleeping like children, sprawled naked across each other. Oh, how he’d longed to be part of that closeness.

After a few more drinks, Fedya lets the beast in him emerge. “So, my little friend. Tell me about your bedroom antics. Do you and your wife fuck each other constantly as all newlyweds should?”

“Dolokhov,” berates Pierre. “Must you always be so crude?”

Fedya fixes those strange eyes on him and smirks. “I think I must. You know me, Petrushka, I cannot be decent to save my life. Certainly not when I am drunk.”

Pierre shakes his head in mock despair, but the vodka has loosened his tongue enough to mention something that’s been bothering him. “Helene is not proving as easy to please as the working girls I have been with in the past,” he admits shyly. 

At first Dolokhov laughs and Pierre sinks into himself, wishing the floor would swallow him whole before the ridicule starts up, but then his friend turns uncharacteristically sympathetic.

“Whores are paid to service you, and part of their job is to make you believe that you have pleased them. A wife will never be as accommodating. You must work hard to seduce her.”

Pierre now realises how naïve he has been. This had never once crossed his mind. “Of course,” he says, slamming the heel of a palm against his forehead.

“What do you do in bed?” asks Dolokhov, leaning back in his chair, a picture of inebriated elegance.

“What do you mean?” Pierre is confused.

“Well, Petrushka.” Dolokhov changes position, leaning forward conspiratorially. “What do you do to that beautiful body in order to give pleasure to Helene?”

“I- I- The- The usual, I suppose,” stammers Pierre. He is not an expert by any means, but he knows the mechanics of procreating and to have his erection inside a woman is an unsurpassed delight. He’d always assumed it must be the same for his wife.

“The usual sounds rather dull.” Dolokhov smirks at him. His eyes are heavy lidded and hungry looking. “Do you make her wet for you first before you take her? Tease her until she’s moaning like one of our well loved actresses?”

“Fedya, enough,” says Pierre. Talk of this nature is unsuitable for anywhere but the bedroom. Though sadly not his own.

Dolokhov grins and leans in closer, unbuttoning Pierre’s waistcoat and thumbing at his nipples until he gasps in shock. “Do this,” he says. “Then lift up her skirt and lap at her sweet little cunt until she opens like a flower for you.”

“I’ve never. I’d never,” gasps Pierre. He can’t imagine doing anything so… so unhealthy.

Dolokhov laughs again and, under cover of the table, he drops to his knees, spreading Pierre’s thighs and crouching between them. “Don’t look so horrified, Petrushka. You should hear the sounds they make when you eat them out. There’s nothing like it.” He spreads Pierre further and bends his head, so close now that Pierre can feel his breath, as hot as hell-fire. “Imagine that you are Helene.” 

He swirls the tip of his tongue around that most masculine part of a gentleman’s anatomy and, horror stricken, Pierre can feel his penis begin to unfurl. 

As Dolokhov continues to nuzzle shamelessly into him, drawing his tongue up and down the seam of Pierre's breeches, the blood rushes south and soon his reaction will become obvious to all but a blind man. “Stop this now,” he cries, getting unsteadily to his feet and pushing the other man away. 

The other patrons look over at their table to see what all the fuss is about and Pierre slumps back down into the chair.

“I’m sorry, Petrushka,” says Dolokhov. “I was simply trying to help.”

There are few people in this world that Pierre can claim as true friends. Count Rostov and his family are amongst this number and Dolokhov completes the total. He only hopes that he has not ruined things between them.

“I know, Fedya,” he says, helping the drunken soldier to his feet. “I apologise. I’m unused to such matters.”

Dolokhov pours two more shots of vodka. “Then here’s to you becoming practiced in them as soon as possible,” he says, clinking his glass against Pierre’s. “A pretty woman needs to be well loved all of the time. Now, my friend, the room is spinning which means that it’s time to hunt out somewhere to rest my head for the night.”

“Fedya,” says Pierre, hating the thought of him having nowhere to go. “Come home with me. Stay until you find a place of your own.”

“And what of your wife?” says Dolokhov, an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s my house,” says Pierre, full of spirit soaked bravado. “And I’ll decide who sleeps there.” He’ll sweet talk Helene in the morning. She’ll be happy enough to put up with a house guest if it means a dozen extra gowns for the season.

*

The offer of a visit from the dressmaker does not work as well as Pierre had hoped. Helene is furious with him for inviting Dolokhov to stay and her constant bad mood does not improve matters in the bedroom. 

Their first dinner as a threesome hums with nervous tension and Dolokhov’s behaviour does little to aid the situation. Leering at Helene, he acts the beast that she frequently declares him to be, making the kind of remarks that are lurid enough to have a hardened sailor blushing. Pierre, however, couldn’t give a damn. He likes having his friend as a live in companion, enjoying their excessive drinking and ever strengthening bond. 

“He’s making a fool of you,” says Helene when husband and wife are _almost_ alone for the first time in weeks. They’ve been sleeping in separate bedrooms since Dolokhov’s arrival.

Why is she feeling so threatened, wonders Pierre. Is she jealous that Fedya makes him happy where she cannot? Surely, she is the fool in this ménage rather than him?

Several weeks later, he receives a note from a supposed well wisher that turns his stomach to water. He reads the words over and over again, but cannot bring himself to believe what the letter says. Lying about taking a trip to Petersburg, he sneaks back into the house through the servant’s entrance and skulks the corridors in order to prove this anonymous warning a lie.

As expected, Fedya and Helene carp relentlessly throughout the day and, to begin with, Pierre is relieved, but then he begins to wonder why they spend so many hours together when they seemingly can’t stand each other’s company.

Hunched over, Pierre peers through a crack in the door to see his wife and friend at the dining table, seated opposite one another and arguing as always. Tired of hearing a stream of bitter words being launched in both directions, Pierre is about to leave them to it and retire to his rooms when the sound of a scuffle lures him back to his peephole.

Dolokhov has his hand pressed over Helene’s mouth and she’s struggling against him. On the point of intervening, Pierre halts in his tracks when Dolokhov replaces hand with mouth and seals his lips against Helene’s. There is nothing romantic going on here and Pierre waits to see his wife cast Dolokhov aside, but instead she kisses him back with equal fervour.

Their kiss is more passionate than any sex Pierre has ever experienced. He’s always treated Helene as if she were a delicate piece of bone china from the Orient, whereas Dolokhov is bestial, sweeping aside the plates and pushing her down onto the table then lifting her skirts and burying his head between her legs.

Pierre can see by the expression on Helene’s face that she is, right now, opening up to him like a flower. She thrashes against Dolokhov’s mouth, telling him how much she despises him for doing this to her and yet, in between these angry words she’s moaning more loudly than one of the city’s finest whores.

Knowing that he should either challenge Dolokhov or run away like a frightened fawn, Pierre chooses the ugliest of all paths and continues to watch, a hand rubbing helplessly against his breeches as he watches his own beautiful wife brought to climax by Dolokhov’s wicked tongue.

Things worsen when Dolokhov throws his jacket aside, taking down braces and trousers, his cock rampant as he pulls Helene to him and enters her. The sigh of utter pleasure is far more telling than the cascade of vicious words which fall from her lips.

“I hate you,” she spits out in disgust.

“And yet you love this,” says Dolokhov as he fucks her hard, bending his head to savage that poisonous little mouth.

*

Pierre Bezukhov is a broken man, more lost than when he was wandering the unfamiliar streets of Petersburg with the childish intention of becoming a revolutionary.

Nowadays, his ambitions are less radical in nature. What he craves most is revenge: a chance to slit Dolokhov’s throat while he’s sleeping or, better still, to publicly humiliate the man as punishment for stealing his wife. Instead, he finds himself drawn to the darkest corners of the house, spying on the couple as they fuck each other with frightening regularity. The saddest truth of all is that Pierre gains more satisfaction from this secondary sexual thrill than he has ever done in his own marriage bed.

Their affair inevitably becomes the talk of Moscow, with Pierre gaining a reputation as a whimpering cuckold for consenting to these carryings on in his own home and allowing Dolokhov to remain there as his guest. Even so, he’d do anything to avoid a confrontation, and would doubtless have continued to put up with the messy situation had it not been for Dolokhov’s endless taunts at his expense during Count Rostov’s dinner party to honour the returned soldiers.

“You do not have the right to take what is mine,” he howls, launching himself to his feet when Dolokhov steals the sheet music clean out of his hand. This is undoubtedly more humiliating for him and yet he cannot back down. “I challenge you.”

Dolokhov looks up at him, head cocked to one side, his expression once again unreadable. “And I accept,” he declares in silken tones.

The talk of dueling heralds the end of partying for the night and the guests disperse as soon as the drone of the cantata is finished. 

How can it be possible that two rivals would think of sharing a carriage home together? The odds might be lengthy, but this is indeed what happens and Pierre finds himself staring at his erstwhile friend, their knees too close for comfort’s sake.

The silence is unnerving and Pierre is searching for something to say when Dolokhov finally speaks. “I have a challenge of my own for you, Petrushka,” he says, his eyes glinting like steel. “I dare you to join Helene and I in bed.”

“Why would you ever suggest such a thing?” asks Pierre, quaking with the bastard child of fear and arousal.

“Because I see the way you watch us and I know that you want to sleep with us.” Dolokhov laughs, a musical riff which casts a spell over Pierre. “You want me the same way I want you, so why lie about it?”

“And Helene?” says Pierre. What is the point of pretending? “She does not desire me,” he confesses. “I cannot please her the way you do.” He’s bitter and full of hatred for himself. He might be Count Bezukhov in name, but he’s still that awkward little man with stooped shoulders, an ugly gait and a face that only a mother could love.

“Then I’ll teach you,” says Dolokhov and he is such a temptation, his mouth curved into a smile that for once isn’t dangerous. All the more dangerous because of it, perhaps.

“And the duel?” says Pierre.

“Oh, we will miss,” says Dolokhov with a careless wave of his hand. “There are far more interesting things on my mind than shooting you, Petrushka.”

Carriage journey over, they enter the darkly lit palace and, once inside, Dolohkov becomes a wolf on the prowl, pushing Pierre up against the stuccoed walls and closing in for a kiss. “You want this?” he asks, his mouth a scant inch away.

“Yes,” breathes Pierre. He’s always wanted it, the larger than life soldier haunting the hidden recesses of his dreams.

Dolokhov’s mouth tastes of meat and wine. He is animal in his needs, feasting on Pierre until he grows close to fainting. “Shall I have you here?” he growls. “Or do we discuss this matter further in the presence of your pretty wife?”

“There’ll be no more deceptions,” states Pierre. He’s an honest man and however much he is enjoying being taken apart by Fedya, he would prefer it if Helene were involved. At least he has some limited knowledge of what to do with her body.

“My frightened little mouse,” laughs Dolokhov, wrapping an arm around Pierre’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, let us fuck your wife and put your fears to rest.”

“What are you two doing in here?” demands Helene as Dolokhov charges through the double doors to her boudoir with Pierre in tow. “Are you so drunk that you cannot tell which are your own rooms? Get out of here, you louts.”

Dolokhov backheels the door shut and pulls off his boots. “We’re drunk on thoughts of you,” he says. “Now remove that nightgown before I rip it off you myself.”

“Husband?” Helene turns her head, full of clever charm. 

There is a smile playing at the corners of her mouth and Pierre wants to kiss her very much indeed, especially now he knows she’s not made of porcelain.

“It’s been an eventful evening,” says Dolokhov, now down to his underclothes. “Pierre and I have made a contract to kill each other tomorrow, but in the meantime I thought a fuck would be a fine way to end our friendship.”

“You will not kill my husband,” retorts Helene.

Dolokhov laughs again. “I suppose widowhood would be pointless, seeing as you can never have the man of your dreams.”

“Fyodor!” Helene advances on him, hand raised ready to slap. “You’re such a bastard.”

Pierre stays back, still dressed, watching as they skirmish. He’s the outsider here, clueless as to the meaning of their private jokes. How long have they known each other this way?

Dolokhov escapes and stands behind Pierre, arms coiling around him as he efficiently unbuttons jacket, waistcoat and the front panel of his breeches. 

Pierre bats his hand away when things are in danger of becoming too intimate. 

“Hush now, little mouse,” croons Dolokhov. “I promise we’ll not hurt you. We want you to enjoy yourself.”

Accepting that this is going to happen, needing it more than anything, Pierre leans back against Dolokhov who takes advantage of his acquiescence and barges him playfully towards the bed. His eyes are drawn to Helene who is smiling, enticing him in with her beauty, and he wonders what has changed between them. Why is she happy enough to sleep with him as long as Dolokhov is present?

“Undress me, Pierre,” she says. “Fedya will see to you.”

Something about the ease of this tells Pierre that Helene is used to being part of a threesome. He’d assumed that she was an innocent when they were married. No wonder she was so disappointed in him. With hands that are trembling from nerves, Pierre lifts the silk nightgown over her head to reveal her naked body. She is glorious and, as always, he is overwhelmed by her, his cock rearing to a full stand.

“There’s a fellow,” smiles Dolokhov as he frees him from everything but his smalls.

“Come now, boys,” complains Helene. “Why am I the only one in the nude?”

“Let me do the honours,” says Dolokhov, unlacing Pierre’s underwear, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and then pulling them down.

It’s cold in Helene’s bedroom, but that has nothing to do with Pierre’s sudden bout of shivering. The look of arousal in Dolokhov’s eyes is both terrifying and appealing and Pierre longs to be kissed by him again.

“Lovely,” says Dolokhov, letting his fingertips brush against hard flesh. “Look at Helene. Really look at her.”

Pierre sees his wife as if it’s the first time. She’s lying naked on the bed, skin as white as milk, her nipples swollen and luscious, as is the glimpse of the treasure that lies between her legs. 

“Remember what I told you,” says Dolokhov.

How could Pierre forget? He cups each delicate breast and strokes Helene’s nipples with a tender touch. 

“She’s not made of glass, Petrushka,” says Dolokhov. “She’s here to be tasted and explored.”

Pierre lurches forward, his mouth opening to kiss each nipple in turn. He’d assumed this act was for babies only, but suckling at her causes her flesh to peak in his mouth, and the resulting sounds she makes are delightful.

Dolokhov is kneeling close behind him, hot and male, rough soldier’s hands stroking patterns over his skin. “Lick her out,” he instructs. “Make her ready for your cock.”

Pierre has never felt inclined to do such a thing before, but with Dolokhov as his teacher and Helene so willing beneath him, his mind is changed and he shifts down the bed to place a nervous kiss to her cunt. The taste comes as a surprise, lemony fresh with a subtle tea like scent, which is quite delicious. More so are the noises she makes as he laps at her, learning all her parts. The inside is a warm tunnel, the folds covered with downy hair, and when he discovers a tiny swollen bud with his tongue, her reaction to this is extreme.

“Oh god yes, Pierre,” she cries, pressing herself hard against his mouth and eliciting a moan of approval from him, together with a chuckle of satisfaction from above.

Intent on his new task, Pierre is only vaguely aware that Dolokhov is on the move and is more than a little nonplussed when the man slides beneath him, mouth within kissing distance of his erect cock. He’s seen some of the whores doing this when it was requested of them, but has never asked to be pleasured in such a manner. It has always seemed an unsanitary business to him, but now, with his mouth at Helene’s cunt, joyfully eating her out, he sees the error of his ways.

The difference though is that cock sucking, to his knowledge, has always been performed by a woman. He’s heard of men sodomising men, but there was never a whisper about them pleasing each other with more sensual acts.

“Fedya, you can’t,” he says, lifting his head.

“I can and I’d enjoy doing so,” replies Dolokhov. “Do you want me to do this?”

Pierre is torn. If he says yes to it then he’ll be engaging in a level of depravity that is unthinkable for a Russian nobleman, but if he says no then he’ll certainly regret missing out on such an experience. His cock aches, pulsing from the desire to know Fedya’s mouth.

“Say nothing and I _will_ suck you off,” continues Dolokhov.

Pierre says nothing.

By now, Helene is leaning back on her forearms, watching events unfold with a look of fascination on her face. “You should let my husband see how much you enjoy sucking cock, Dolokhov. He ought to know what an animal you really are.”

“I’m a cat,” laughs Dolokhov as he rolls Pierre onto his back. “And Petrushka is my little mouse. Whereas as you, Helene, are a spider ready to devour her partners after mating.”

“Bastard,” spits Helene. “I hate you.”

Pierre barely registers the angry words, his eyes fixed on Dolokhov whose head is so very close to his private parts. Close enough that he can feel the huffs of breath from his laughter. He watches intently as Dolokhov approaches, wetting his lips.

When it happens Pierre moans like the worst of all sinners. The feel of this is as near to divinity as could ever be achieved on earth. The roughness of that moustache is a complete contrast to the slick velvet of Dolokhov’s mouth, which is hot and wet as it moves sinuously over Pierre’s stiffening cock. This is better than sex, better than anything, and Pierre cannot help but thread fingers into Dolokhov’s hair and take pleasure in him.

“It seems a waste to have your mouth unoccupied,” says Helene and holding onto the headboard she straddles Pierre, her cunt a fraction away from his lips. Lowering herself a little more, she sighs with delight as Pierre licks into her. “Between us, we’ll teach you everything there is to know about sex, husband,” she says and then grinds down on him until he is breathless and drowning in her, his own needs being taken care of so well. 

It all ends too quickly, his orgasm taking him by surprise as he jerks upwards and releases himself over and over into Dolokhov’s hungry mouth, working feverishly at Helene until she’s crying out and rocking against his face. Has she ever reached these heights with him before? He very much doubts it.

“Get off him,” growls Dolokov, grabbing at Helene. “Spread your legs for me, woman.”

Even under this hazy spell of sex, Pierre hates the ugly way that Dolokhov uses his wife. Helene, however, seems eager enough to comply, lying on her back, knees parted as Dolokhov pushes down his underclothes and thrusts inside her.

“A fuck will finish her off well,” he says in an aside to Pierre who can do nothing but passively watch as Dolokhov mounts his wife. At least this time he is bed with them rather than watching from the keyhole. “She needs it after coming from your mouth.”

Soon Helene is crying out again in completion, clasping Dolokhov to her and then shoving him away once she is done with him.

“So, I’m to be your plaything tonight,” laughs Dolokhov, lying on his back, hands tucked behind his neck, his cock a column of hard flesh, taut against his belly.

“Stop complaining,” says Helene, dragging her fingernails down his chest and leaving angry red welts in their wake. “Let me teach my husband a thing or two about men.”

Taking Pierre by the hand, she encourages him to move down the bed where he is soon faced with the tempting yet terrifying sight of Dolokhov’s cock.

“What would you have me do?” he asks shyly.

“Hold him in your hand,” says Helene. “Treat his cock as you would do your own.”

Unabashed for once Pierre kneels, spitting into his palm and taking a firm grasp of Dolokhov’s erection. As he pulls at it, letting the skin furl back and forth over the slick shaft, Dolokhov moans low in his throat and Pierre flushes with satisfaction at having finally performed well in bed. Helene leans forward to take the swollen head into her mouth, sucking at it as if it’s the best treat in the world and Pierre changes position to lie next to her, sharing Dolokhov’s cock, his tongue dancing against Helene’s.

“Too good,” moans Dolokhov a minute or so later, pulling himself free of husband and wife. “I want to fuck my little mouse,” he growls. “What do you say, Petrushka? Can I have your pretty arse?”

Pierre is unsure. So far, he’s enjoying these new experiences and wants to discover everything that can be done in bed, but he’s downright scared at the idea of sodomy. “Will it hurt?” he asks.

Dolokhov laughs. “Does it hurt having my cock in your arse, Helene?”

She shrugs. “As much as it hurts you when you’re getting a good shafting.” She smiles at him. “You always seem to relish it.”

It was a shock to discover that Fedya Dolokhov liked to bed other men, but Pierre's downright amazed to learn that such an incredibly masculine specimen would enjoy being on the receiving end of a fuck. Then again, his friend has always been a non-conformist in every possible way.

“You have your answer,” says Dolokhov, unconcerned by these revelations about his sex life. “Spread your legs, Petrushka, and I’ll show you how much fun buggery can be.”

“For you or for me?” asks Pierre as he complies, vulnerable in every way to Dolokhov and his wicked intentions.

“Hah,” chuckles Dolokhov. “There you have me. There is nothing I want more than to come inside your tight little hole, but I’ll make sure that you’ll enjoy it as much I do.”

“Stop teasing him and get on with it,” says Helene, passing Dolokhov a small bottle from the drawer.

With two such vibrant people in bed with him, Pierre’s fears are banished. Slick with oil they stroke him, massaging his cock back to life, teasing at his balls and then sliding lower to smooth a path downwards, four hands working together to push him along the path to full arousal. Keening with need, he fixes his eyes on Dolokhov who kneels between his legs, crooning out words of comfort as his finger circles and pushes, circles and pushes until he is exploring the very insides of Pierre’s body. 

The sensation is strange, intrusive and yet intriguing, and as Dolokhov twists and then crooks, something decadent bursts inside Pierre, flaring with such an intensity of feeling that he bears down in order to achieve more of it.

“You’ve married a hidden treasure, Helene,” says Dolokhov, his eyes bright with amusement as he fingers Pierre open. “On all fours, Petrushka. It’s time for you to get acquainted with my cock.”

Pierre would dearly love to see Dolokhov’s face as he loses his virginity to him, but pressed down into this nest of pillows he is somewhat relieved at being able to hide his panic when that big cock first thrusts into him. It feels huge and the sensation is far more frightening than being breached by fingers alone.

“Relax, Pierre,” says Helene who is lying next to him, fingers dipping into her cunt. “That way you'll be able to enjoy it.” 

His head turned to one side, he watches as she plays with herself. It’s a pretty picture, pretty enough that he unclenches and Dolokhov is able to move more freely inside him. 

Being sodomised is jarring at first and he struggles to see how any man could take pleasure in this, but then with a slight change of angle, Dolokhov begins to work miracles, slamming against that place inside his body, which to Pierre, is the equivalent of igniting a firework. 

“Oh,” he moans as Dolokhov reaches around to pull at his neglected cock, awash with an violent sensation that’s good, bad, wonderful. 

By now, Helene is rubbing furiously at herself as she watches them fuck. “Mmmm,” she cries as she climaxes and a name follows which doesn’t belong on her lips when she’s pleasuring herself.

“Your wife has hidden depths,” says Dolokhov, curving over Pierre to whisper in his ear. “And all of them are filthy.”

Pierre nods and grunts, lost to everything as he pushes back against Dolokhov’s cock then thrusts forward into his hand.

Dolokhov mutters his approval, gripping Pierre and working him with determined strokes as he fucks into him and unleashes with a roar that matches his animal nature. The heat of his semen is enough to tip Pierre over the edge, and for the second time that night he erupts, spilling over Dolokhov’s hand.

“What do we do now?” he says in panic, once sanity has returned to the bedroom.

“Sleep,” yawns Dolokhov, stretching like a well fed cat, then pulling Pierre close and draping an arm over his body. 

Pierre lets his eyes fall shut, smug from the knowledge that he has finally achieved the close companionship he so desperately desired. 

 

\---end


End file.
